THE PIGS ARE IN THE STREETS

A poet once wrote, "I wasn't going to write any more poems like this, but the pigs are in the streets."

Two young men have returned home dead. A Brownsville boy was laid to rest a few weeks ago. These soldiers were hailed as heroes. Why are they heroes? Is the government using the term "hero" to brainwash its subjects? Shouldn't heroes be the products of heroic crusades? What is heroic about Afghanistan and soldiers manning strategic locals all over the world? Is our imperialistic nation establishing bases within easier reach of the oil fields? Our soldiers aren't dying to save our democracy. They are dying to save our economy.

I have little confidence in our government protecting either our democracy or our economy. Our politicians spew their nationalistic and religious rhetoric, but I have neither trust nor faith in them. Their present and past records speak for themselves. Since the days of Carter, the oil producing countries of the Middle East have served us notice that they will squeeze our balls tighter and tighter as long as we remain addicted to their black heroin.

There is no difference when it comes to the Democrats and the Republicans. The fate of the transnational companies is more important to them than their own citizens. They don't love their country. They love the firms that put money into their pockets and take care of their families and friends.

I was raised during the Vietnam War. My parents said I would betray the family if I joined the military. I had no desire to join the military. When I was a teenager, the losers joined the military. I didn't know one person of the 55,000 who died in that war precipitated by paranoia and propaganda. I didn't know one person who joined the military. The veterans returning from overseas and joining us in college classrooms congratulated us on our good sense.

They said that a bunch of gooks weren't worth the ultimate sacrifice. They did say that the dope was great and the pussy was greater. They said that when you ate a Vietnamese chick and brought her to a climax, it was like a dam breaking in your face. It was an image that has stuck with me. There were also the Thailand tales. I have lived a life of sexual frustration deprived of those carnal experiences.

A week didn't go by in those days that a local boy didn't die blown to bits in a rice paddy, but the unlucky victim was white trash or barrio basura or ghetto black. The middle class boys attending school may have found smoking dope and fucking gals closer to home less exciting, but it was much safer. The great thing about the Vietnam War were the demonstrations in the Bay Area. They were a perfect excuse for smoking more dope and fucking more gals.

I have told my sons I would disown them if they joined the military. They have replied that they would disown me if I attempted to convince them to join the military. The volunteer military is a scam. The government knows that a military filled with middle-class boys wouldn't tolerate the farces and fiascoes that are our foreign intrigues. There would be riots in every major U.S. city demanding immediate withdrawals from Afghanistan if Ricardo Adobatti's children were on the next transport plane deploying them. Intelligent people recognize dead-end endeavors.

The government has decided to exploit the ignorant instead. These under-educated individuals face dreary futures. There are no good-paying jobs. There are no exits from their trailer parks or barrios or ghettos. The military is their only option. The military sends poor whites, browns and blacks to recruit more poor whites, browns and blacks to do Uncle Sam's dirty work. The army, navy, air force and marines call killing the fanatics in the Middle East and Muslim Asia and African their patriotic duty. How many more years and how many more deaths before we will have fulfilled our patriotic duty?

Who in his right man can have confidence in our Democrats and Republicans to resolve our foreign and domestic woes? The puppeteers are manipulating the marionettes while those free of strings stand quietly on the sidelines and say nothing as long as they don't have to risk life and limb in the fray.

These recent deaths and the hundreds if not thousands who preceded them didn't die for our freedoms. Our freedoms aren't at stake in Afghanistan. Quite the contrary. We are risking our freedoms in Afghanistan because we are weakening ourselves in these vain endeavors. The weaker the country, the fewer the freedoms.

As much as we dislike the people of Afghanistan, their denizens hate us more. We are hated throughout the world for our self-deceiving love. But hate is a part of the human condition. It is the reason the violence never ceases.

How do we resolve these bloody situations? In the same manner we would take out a killer in a neighborhood. We descend upon the target with our sophisticated weaponry and overwhelming numbers. In Afghanistan we unleash our might and attack with our special forces. We eliminate as much of the enemy as possible and raze their facilities. Then we exit. Blow them back to the Middle Ages.

Enough with the ideologies. Keep it simple. We punish those who commit crimes against us, but this fixation with nation building on the part of both Democrats and Republicans makes no sense when our own nation's infrastructure is crumbling.

I don't like writing columns like this, but the dogs are in the street. I seldom pontificate on national or international issues. This is not my strength. Tip O'Neill said all politics were local and that's where I feel most comfortable. But how can I remain silent when I think that my sons might be cannon fodder? I don't want to receive their dead bodies draped in flags to cover up the wrong-doing.

Our government has no qualms about abusing the good intentions of our young men and women for a bad cause. Iraq and Afghanistan and Iran and North Korea are bad causes. How long will we allow our good people to be duped into bad causes? Three young men are being laid to rest for the most honorable of intentions. That is the reason for their heroism. Their hearts were pure, but they didn't realize that they were nothing more than cogs in a machine that has spit them out.

How many more ignorant white, brown and black bodies will the machine spit out? Those figures won't include the best and the brightest. They know better. Their parents know better. Rather than the military, the universities are recruiting these boys and girls. The day the military dares recruit college kids, that day will be the beginning of our endless wars.

And Trump who vowed that we would cease chasing our tails? Like all the shit he vomits, puro pedo el vato!!!

WE ARE NOT A GREAT COUNTRY

KEVIN O. GAONA: "Your implication that those men and women who wear the nation's military uniform are nothing but ignorant "cogs" is itself one of the most ignorant things you have written and that's saying a lot. You are correct in one thing, though. You do well to keep to local reporting. You write of some important truths, but your knee-jerk reaction to national defense blinds you to some fallacies in your thinking and writing. I would much rather be surrounded with even the "dumbest" infantrymen than with college graduates. You are a West Coast sophisticate who has never understood and never will understand the fact that most "cogs" know what they signed up for and are willing to follow through. You don't find that kind of loyalty and manhood on any college campus. Those cogs would rather fight and die defending their nation and each other than being patronized by those with your limited sense of love of country. Just keep to your lascivious and vulgar subjects, which suits Brownsville well. Don't spoil their sacrifice and love of country with your false pretense, self-righteous indignation and pseudo-patriotic pontificating. For God and Country. Un abrazo!"
(EDITOR'S NOTE: Our leaders abuse the men and women in the military. I am not demeaning these fine patriots who serve. Their motives are pure and true. It is the politicians who exploit these good people and send them to die for no good cause. Did Vietnam teach us nothing? What are we learning in the Middle East that we should have learned during the Crusades? It's always the same: The rich get richer and the poor get deader. Our leaders treat us like bulls. They wave the American flag in front of our eyes and we go charging to our deaths. We talk about the populations of other countries being brainwashed. Our own propaganda turns us into ignoramuses. We dropped atom bombs on innocent civilians and killed thousands, but we're taught we executed these missions in the best interests of humanity, but other countries aren't as humane as we are and would only use these weapons for dastardly motives. Inevitably, there will be a nuclear war that destroys earth and we will be responsible for letting the genie out of the bottle. I grow so sick and tired of the greatest nation in the history of mankind bullshit. We're the greatest hypocrites in the history of mankind although some might argue that we may not be quite as bad as the Christians, Muslims and Jews who have slaughtered millions in the name of the same god. I tell my sons to avoid the military and stay out of churches. Both of them fill your head with nonsense and endeavor to convince you that evil in the name of god and country is a virtue. The Mexicans say it best: "Puro pinche pedo!" I can't understand a person of your intelligence being so gullible, Kevin, but then again I have never been victimized by the military nor religion. You are being used and behind your back these military and religious puppeteers are laughing at you because it gives them great joy realizing that they have reduced you to an imbecile who will ask how high when they commanded you to jump. Each of us is a solitary creature and as individuals we have to find our own reality in this mysterious existence. Somebody can point, but we must pick our own path. In vino veritas. Un abrazo!)

PANCRACIO PASSES

My dog Pancracio died yesterday. I had him for 17 years. My two oldest sons gave him to me as a Christmas present.

"I know you don't like animals, Daddy, but Pancracio will change your mind," said Carlos, the oldest.

"I baptized him 'Pancracio'," said Joaquin, the younger of the two. "Everybody makes fun of the name Pancracio. Nobody will make fun of this Pancracio."

Pancracio was a German Shepherd. He hated anyone who smacked of being a Nazi. On several occasions he tried to bite Anglos whom he suspected of believing their blood was purer. He would occasionally bite 100% full-blooded Argentines as well as 100% full-blooded Mexicans.

There were many nights when I would sit in my backyard drinking wine and smoking a joint. Pancracio would nuzzle against me and point his nose at the joint in anticipation. I would exhale in his face. Pancracio loved to get high.

During his youth I would take him to Matamoros and enter him in dog fights. For more than five years he was undefeated, but like an elephant fearful of a mouse, Pancracio was scared shitless of Chihuahuas. In his last fight a Chihuahua severed the muscle in one of his legs and that was the end of his career. He did manage to catch the tiny dog in his jaws and break his neck. Pancracio retired undefeated.

Rick Lepre, the legendary coach, once offered me $5000 for Pancracio. His German Shepherd Demetrio had been killed when his wife backed her car over him. Rick thought he would never replace his best friend, but the moment he saw Pancracio he forgot Demetrio. Of course, I couldn't part with Pancracio, but I gave him the alpha male from the next litter to save his marriage. Rick named him Mickey after Mantle.

Pancracio hated cats and I calculated that he killed more than a hundred during his lifetime. More than a few irate neighbors took me to court, but fortunately with the help of my lawyer Justo Leyes we were able to arrive at financial compromises and Pancracio lived to kill another day.

Unlike Rick, I will never find another dog to replace Pancracio. The women come and go, but there will only be one Pancracio.

HOW CORRUPT IS BROWNSVILLE?

"How corrupt is Brownsville?" asked Annie Gunn, The McHale Report's top investigative reporter, as Mort Heinman, the Border City's only uncircumcised Jew as he rolled off of her, frustrated that he couldn't ejaculate.

"How goddamn corrupt is this fuckin' country of ours?" spat Heinman. "Viagra costs me an arm and a leg on this side but across the border it's only a few pesos."

"You don't need, Viagra, honey," said Annie. "You're like the moon. You have your cycles. Sometimes you're waxing and sometimes your waning. I have no doubts that the tides will be up in the morning. Seriously, though: How corrupt is Brownsville?"

"I believe if we knew the answer to that question, we would pack our bags and move to some god-forsaken Mid-Western town in the middle of nowhere and die of boredom rather than pass sleepless nights here worrying that some hitman was going to spray your house."

WHEN MR. AMIGO WAS MR. AMIGO

No Mr. Amigo captured the spirit of Charro Days quite like Vicente Fernandez who arrived for the festivities in the late 1970s. He was at the peak of his acting and singing careers. Brownsville swooned over the Mexican macho.

Built like a middleweight and blessed with a charismatic personality, he cut a handsome figure as he would appear at events and immediately belt out one of his hits to the delight of everyone. For three days he was the Pied Piper of Brownsville, drawing enthusiastic crowds wherever he went. He never disappointed.

One afternoon on a makeshift stage at the mall he exhorted the largely Mexican crowd to reclaim their homeland that had been stolen from them by the gringos. His handlers ushered him to another venue.

It was obvious that his steady intake of tequila was fueling him to new heights. Amazingly, his energy never waned although his voice turned hoarse consenting to too many musical requests.

He consummated his magical mystery tour of Brownsville by conquering one of the Border City's blond-hair maidens. Her seduction sealed his status in the community. A movie star had eclipsed his own image.

Though Fernandez's lust for young ladies doomed this relationship, the Guadalajara gentleman constructed a swimming pool at her home.

After he left, the old men who had lived their youths during the Revolution recalled that Pancho Villa once stormed cities with the same vitality and virility.

TRUMP'S WHITES

Brownsville was a sleepy, little border town in 1941, but it wasn't dusty. The population was 20,000. The Brownsville Eagles were a football power in South Texas. Downtown buildings, already historical constructions at that date, were sturdy; the streets were paved. Central Boulevard and Boca Chica marked the city's boundaries. A trip to the Vermillion was a trip to the country.

The telephone directory boasted as many Anglo names as it did Spanish names. Gringos ran both the municipality and the county. Though some suffered from racist sentiments, there was an egalitarian philosophy among the leadership. They only coveted a small piece of the pie, not the entire pie.

"Was the past better than the present or do Trump's rednecks suffer from the Eisenhower complex when WASPish values, which included lynching blacks from the nearest magnolias, evoke a longing for a simpler time and a more homogenized nation?" posed "Delta" Dave Handelman between songs at El Hueso de Fraile Thursday night.

LET IT RAIN

There will be no painting if the artist doesn't take his brush and drag it across the canvas. There will be no poem or story or novel if the writer doesn't put pen to paper. There is no more difficult challenge than sitting down and doing it.

I wish I had one of those callings that required me to write eight hours a day in order to maintain my sanity. I am not without discipline, but I don't have the spirit of a missionary who wishes to enlighten the world and dedicates his life to a precise objective.

I don't write with a fervor because I am not part of any crusade. I have few beliefs. I believe that when I'm dead, I'm dead. I am not suppurating with passion. I do succumb to cheap thrills, but I have paid a high price for my excesses.

I want to write about anonymity, infinity, eternity and futility. Dark clouds hang over me. Fortunately, I love the rain. My own sorrows are washed away by my own sorrows. I am a self-fulfilling prophecy. I want nothing and in the end I will have nothing.

NOTHING BEATS THE FUN OF WRITING FOR ME

I don't know the motivation behind becoming a writer except the impact I experienced when I was sports editor at the Herald and the head football coaches were threatening to kick my ass because I would refuse to write that the kids played hard and showed heart in their 50-0 losses week after week. 

I saved the sword in my pen for the incompetent coaches whom I stabbed through the heart with their bonehead calls. At 26 in 1977 I found seeing my name at the top of my regular column thrilling as I defied these machos. It was a mismatch between intelligence and ignorance.

I still find it invigorating when I feel that I have written something special and unique. Unlike an athlete who is finished before he even reaches the half-way point in a normal life span, I feel like I'm just hitting my stride at 70 in the year 2020.

I LIVE BY THE LIE

I live by the lie. Lies have saved me time and time again with the exception of my three failed marriages.

As long as spouses lie to each other, they are in love because "love" between a man and a woman is the biggest lie of all.

Nevertheless, I find comfort in the lie. If one day my lies fail, I can turn to the truth.

But what options do those poor fools have who have thought they were living by the truth? Unlike me, they are without alternatives to resolve their despair.

Imagine the awful truth when they realize that the faith they had placed in their truths turn out to be lies.

To add a little humor to this sad philosophy, when two lovers lie next to each other, they are ejaculating one lie after another into each other that in the end prove more fatal to the relationship than if one dies.

PART XXX

Last night Claudia and I didn't go to bed until three in the morning. It was a spontaneous occasion. Since we're home all the time, our eating habits have changed. We keep different morning hours because she has to rise early for the distance learning via Zoom implemented by the BISD. I often lie in bed until nine or ten. I take two preventive pills for medical conditions that require postponing breakfast for an hour. Therefore, it can be as late as eleven before I prepare bacon and eggs, toast, coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice, one of a variety of plates I imagine I'm ordering at a Paris café.

"Bonjour, monsieur. Que voulez vous?"

"Bonjour, mon ami. Je veux une…"

My youngest son Michael chats, watches movies and plays games all night long. Sometimes, he doesn't go to bed until five or six in the morning. Claudia and I wait for him to emerge from his bedroom around three before we eat lunch, which is usually a piece of meat, a vegetable and a salad. As a result of our delayed meals, there are many evenings that we don't have dinner. We'll snack on something with a glass of wine while watching television.

Last night, though, was different. I was hungry. I told Claudia to call for a pizza. Nobody was open. I decided to take the car and find something because I didn't want to cook. Luckily, Toscafino had opened its doors for the first time in weeks. Swank is back by local standards although in a T-shirt, shorts and sandals, I was hardly dressed for the occasion.

One of the beauties of Brownsville, which may account for my 45-year stay, is that nobody really gives a shit. There is an endless stream of gossip and relationships come to sudden ends in the wake of affairs or venereal diseases, but from my many experiences I will argue that nobody really gives a shit. I don't.

You treat people straight and they reciprocate in kind. Brownsville doesn't simmer with racism and most my acquaintances, and there are many, believe that when you are dead, you are dead. Therefore, Catholicism is a tradition and everyone tolerates the Jehovah Witnesses and the Mormons, particularly now that they have to keep their distance. They can continue to spread the word of God, but, goddammit, they better not be spreading COVID-19.

At Toscafino there was a couple at one table, four patrons at the bar and several people sitting outside. I took a seat at the end of the bar and ordered a pizza with everything. The waiter, wearing a mask like the rest of his fellow employees, said it would take approximately 20 minutes. I asked him to bring me a plate of cheese that I slowly ate as I consumed two glasses of a tasty Cab. While waiting, I called Claudia.

"I'm at Toscafino having a great time. All the 'fresas' are here in their low-cut blouses and short skirts."

"That's great," she replied as she flowed with the conversation.

"I've ordered a pizza and I'll be home shortly, but you need to do your part."

"My part?" she replied with a quizzical tone in her voice.

"Yes. Your part! You need to open one of the bottles of wine."

"Oh! Okay."

"See you in a bit."

Toscafino's pizzas cost more than the average pie, but they are large and delicious, eight significant slices, two sufficiently filling. I returned home. I put music on the laptop and we laughed and talked until the wee hours of the morning, another bottle fueling the fun. (For the record, we emptied a Bordeaux and a Malbec.)

In spite of the threat that Coronavirus represents, there has been a silver lining to that invisible cloud that hangs over us. We have learned to take life at a slower pace, relax and relish the down time. We waste so much energy chasing our tails that culminates in nothing. In the 18 years that Claudia and I have been together off-and-on, I don't remember a night like this. We have partied late on countless occasions, but this was different. We were like old friends.

I would have liked to have capped the night with a fuck, but while alcohol enlivens my imagination, it kills my ignition. Fortunately, there's the possibility of afternoon delight. If not, there is the night. And if not, I'm sure tomorrow will bring an end to my sorrow.

PART XXIX

I have finished my 17th book of fiction entitled The Master. It is my shortest work in terms of pages and reads more like a long prose poem. I didn't expect it to end so abruptly, but that gold vein I was pursuing in the cave that is my mind suddenly stopped. Nevertheless, it left me with a handful of nuggets for which I am grateful.

But size isn't suppose to matter, right? It's the last refuge of consolation for guys with small dicks and gals with wee tits, n'est pas? And Pablo Neruda's Veinte Poemas de Amor y Una Canción Desesperada is no thicker than a comic book, yet it made him famous. (For the record, I'm not comparing myself to Pablo Neruda!)

Alex Macias, who taught art for years at UTB and UTRGV and is currently a painter in residence at the University of Arizona, designed the cover as he has designed the covers for all my books. He is my nephew and he only charges his uncle beers and a plate of wings for his contribution to the cause.

If you could judge a book only by its cover and with his talent, I would be a best seller with a million in my bank account, a second home in Portugal and a third residence in Cuba. But, alas, Brownsville, a jealous lover, won't set me free me. I have no regrets. I made my bed here and Brownsville has been a good and faithful lover.

With my shortest book finished, I have embarked on a literary journey that will result in my longest book. The Coronavirus Chronicles owes its inspiration to the pandemic. Besides a running commentary on the disease and its consequences, this is an open-ended undertaking that will include several genres, varying from poetry to prose, short stories to newspaper articles, random thoughts to humorous anecdotes.

Just like The Master which appeared initially in snippets on my blog, I'm following the same strategy with The Coronavirus Chronicles. To write a book and maintain a blog requires killing two birds with one stone.

As my days grow shorter and an eternal night patiently waits to embrace me, I have to pour everything into this work--the good, the bad and the ugly. There are pieces I won't publish on the blog because they cut too close to the bone and I don't want others bleeding profusely at my expense. And some of my own self-inflicted wounds will have to wait until I unveil the final version.

Nevertheless, few experiences compare to the creative act, whether you're a musician or a painter or any other type of artist. It's the closest one comes to experiencing spirituality without believing in a religion. As to The Master, I will let it speak for itself.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: For Facebook I had to eliminate one story called Strawberries. Since I have no doubts that the prudish censors at FB would suspend me for publishing photos of Michelangelo's David or Canova's Reclining Venus, I fear that the sensuousness of Strawberries would jeopardize my precarious status with FB. Strawberries is one of the most intriguing entries in my opinion of the 32 sketches, but I don't want to fly the envelope only to have FB send me crashing back to earth again. FB has value for me as an outlet. The unedited, unexpurgated and unplugged version of The Master can be read at The McHale Report--themchalereport.blogspot.com)